


Of Sunlight and Lions

by casuallyhuman



Series: Of Wolves and Lions [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/pseuds/casuallyhuman
Summary: Tyrion really prefers Sansa without clothes.(Or: the morning after.)





	Of Sunlight and Lions

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't post the epilogue quite yet, but I _had_ to post this. Really, I had to. It's just a lil' something, but it's so adorable I hk felt the need to do it anyway.

She’s awakened by creeping tendrils of sunlight flashing across her eyelids, coaxing her to consciousness.

A pleasant one: she’s never felt so content in her _life_.

She lies on top of her husband (her _husband_ , she thinks happily), head on his shoulder. One arm has her pulled tight against him, skin against skin. She’s so warm, too—not sweaty, but a pleasant warmth, his skin sliding smoothly, softly against hers when she stretches her legs a little.

The movement does make her wince, a little—he’d been rather enthusiastic the night before, so she’s a bit sore. It’s an sort of agreeable sore, though—more of a reminder of who she is now, who he is to _her,_ than an actual bother.

She shifts from her side to her stomach, gently moving his arm off of her as she props her elbows up on the bed next to him so she can study him.

She hasn’t really ever gotten the chance, she laments, to just look at his face. Especially in so peaceful a moment.

But now his face is quiet, mouth relaxed into a half-smile. She can’t even see the creases in his forehead like this, no worry available to cause them. His breathing is so deep, too, so even, chest rhythmic with the pace of it.

She blushes a little as her eyes travel up to his hair; the curls there are unruly on his best days. Their natural tendency towards disarray combined with her… _attentions_ the night before have left them tousled, sticking in every direction, and it’s obvious he’d had _quite_ the night.

She lets a hand reach out to pat down a particularly wild piece of hair, smoothing it gently over his brow, and his eyes flutter open.

Tyrion tenses, for a moment, but when he recognizes her figure he stills, softens into the bed again. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, my lord.” She replies, a smile tugging at one edge of her lips.

“Whatever are you all the way down there for?” He asks, reaching a hand out to rub her shoulder. “I’m _cold_.”

“You are certainly not,” She protests, rolling her eyes, but she acquiesces anyway, climbing back up until he holds her again.

He stills for a moment, but then he grabs her thigh and hikes her leg tightly over his, and her sensitive flesh makes contact with his hip, his length pressing into her thigh. She yelps, bats softly at his chest.

“ _Much_ better,” He declares dramatically.

She huffs half-heartedly onto his neck, as if put-out, and he consolingly rubs a circle into her leg; she’s certain he can tell she is decidedly _not_ put-out.

“How are you feeling?” He asks after a moment, voice low.

Her cheeks heat. “A little sore,” She admits.

“I’m sorry,” He says, pressing a kiss to her crown. “I was a little too enthusiastic at the end, I know.”

“No,” She protests, closing her eyes, trying to settle closer to him. “It was perfect. _You_ were perfect.”

He laughs. “Despite all my downfalls, I suppose I _am_ rather good in bed.”

She wishes she could argue with him—his ego is certainly big enough—but there’s really nothing she can say. “You’re alright,” She admits, tightening her arm around him.

“ _Alright?”_ He says, feigning offense, and pinches her arse.

She pulls away slightly so he can see her glaring at him. “That’s what I said.” She replies, challenge evident in her eyes.

His eyes heat, and before she knows it he’s pushed her onto her back and he hovers over her.

And, if she feels a bolt of liquid heat shoot to her core, who could blame her?

“Alright, you say.” He nips at her shoulder, hand kneading her leg. “Perhaps you require a reminder or my prowess.”

“Perhaps.” She agrees, and her hand has already wound itself in his hair, encouraging him as he suckles along her neck.

His hand slides between them but pauses just above her curls. “My mouth again?” He asks.

She considers it, _really_ considers it, because _gods_ , his mouth verged on _magical_ , but she can tell she’s far too sensitive for all that again. “Not just yet.” She says.

He sighs sadly. “Soon,” He promises, and then his hand is on her.

It doesn’t take much, really; his voice _does_ things to her to begin with, and his fingers play her expertly, pushing and taking and _tweaking_ until she’s crying out her peak within moments.

He withdraws his hand and rests it by her side to help him hold himself up as she breathes heavily, satisfied.

He quirks a brow at her. “It’s been a few hours and already you’re scheming to get orgasms from me.”

“That wasn’t a scheme,” She protests. “And besides, it’s a fair trade.” To prove her point, she pushes a hand down between them, reaching for his length.

To his surprise, he tilts his hips away from her. “It’s alright,” He tells her when she looks at him in surprise. “It doesn’t have to be a _trade_. Besides, apparently you have a _lifetime_ of missing orgasms to make up for.”

She blushes. He isn’t wrong.

Still, she pushes her hand down toward him and takes him in hand, making him groan. “I want to.” She insists, squeezing him.

“Alright,” He chokes out, unable to argue. She smiles.

His arms tremble by her sides as she strokes him, trying to repeat the action she’d done the night before that’d made him so eager. His hips snap a few times into her hands, and he groans. “Harder, _please_.”

She complies, and soon warm, thick strings of white spurt onto her belly, and he collapses beside her.

“Sorry,” He pants as he looks at the mess he’s made. He doesn’t _look_ sorry.

“It’s alright.” She slides to the edge of the bed and stands, arching her legs a little as she stretches again.

“Where are you going?” He asks, eyes roaming appreciatively over her figure.

“I was going to clean myself up and get dressed.”

“You can’t,” He complains. “You’re not allowed to put clothes on, remember?”

She grabs a spare cloth and dips it in a wash basin before wiping her stomach down, then between her legs. “I _remember_ discussing how impractical such a notion was.”

He finally moves from the bed then, pushing off and walking to her. He grabs her arm and tugs her until she follows him back to the bed. “And _I_ remember endeavoring to prove you wrong.”

She sighs when he pushes her back down onto her back, but she can’t help but smile up at him. He returns it with ease, supporting his head with one hand and stroking her arm with the other.

“I suppose we’ll have to leave eventually,” He says after a moment. “There are arrangements to be made.”

“Hence the clothes.” Sansa replies. Because it’s true: there’s much to do. She’ll need to discuss the marriage with Daenerys, make sure they can leave for Casterly Rock; write letters for the North’s bannermen (she hadn’t been lying to Tyrion—they all respect her and follow her, even with Jon as the official Warden); try to arrange for word to get to Arya (not that she’ll reply—but it’ll ease Sansa’s mind). Besides that, she should probably arrange for her things to be sent from Winterfell. She has no doubt that Tyrion would be more than happy to provide everything she needs—but still, there’s something about her old furs that she’s missed dearly.

He _huffs_ gently, and he’s close enough that his breath brushes her cheek. “No one will miss us until at least the midday meal.”

“One more hour,” Sansa counters.

Tyrion leans down, as if to kiss her, and she inhales softly in anticipation, mouth going dry. But he stops, just above her lips, green eyes twinkling. “Two.”

“One,” She breathes in answer, defiant, and tugs him to her.

He’s all too happy to give in to the kiss, caressing her lips with his, the rough stubble on his jaw scratching her face. She sighs when his tongue touches hers, pulling him closer. He tastes a little different, the night having taken its toll, but she’s sure it’s done the same to her, and she really can’t bring herself to care. Not with how wonderful the bed feels beneath her, he atop her.

He pulls from her, breathing heavy, and her heart pounds at the sight of him, rays of light dappling his face with white and gold, looking at her as if nothing else in the world matters.

She squeezes her husband’s hand. “Perhaps two.”

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
